


The Book Called Henry

by gentle_herald



Category: Wolf Hall (TV), Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: Anachronistic Hollinshed's Chronicle, Exceedingly poor strategic decisions but surprisingly good sex, Far happier than I planned this to be, How is Crom going to get out of this one, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/pseuds/gentle_herald
Summary: At Winchester, once Anne's bishops have been consecrated, anything seems possible.





	The Book Called Henry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennytheshipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/gifts).



> Better a year late than never.

Early September. Five days. Wolf Hall.  

They ride next to Winchester, striking for the heart of kingship; the roots of Henry's England.  He holds court there, under King Arthur's Table, reveling in the opportunity to act the part of one of his great predecessors: Edward III, perhaps. History is a slippery thing. The last two generations are riddled with wolf pits, so one does not encourage men to recall their immediate ancestors. But the past is safely distant, safely glorious; and this high pageantry stirs up reverence and awe.  

Cranmer consecrates three new bishops in Winchester Cathedral with great pomp and solemnity, unlike some previous ceremonies. There is nothing to be ashamed of in this new English church; there must not be if it is to provide a firm base for Henry. They will not hide from the Emperor, or King Louis. Not here in Arthur's seat.  

 

He has a letter from Reyner Wolfe. The man writes from his London bookshop offering congratulations on the ordinations. What he means is, we have come through at last, you and I. They knew what we were doing with the Bibles and tracts and they did not burn us, and now we have bishops as much ours as Queen Anne’s. Being a private man, Wolfe can afford a little more triumph than Cromwell, who was both the censor and the censored. Still.  He is left a little giddy.  

Wolfe dreams of writing a chronicle that would tell the story of the whole world. Cromwell thinks, if I were another man, that is what I would do. I would be a chronicler. But I am already one, in actions not the words recording the actions. I make the stories ready to be written: the stories of Henry’s England.  

 

"Look, Crumb," says Henry, gesturing to the massive wooden roundel above them. "I had that painted, oh, twelve years ago." 

"Thirteen," corrects Cromwell and Henry laughs indulgently. 

It is indeed painted. Green and white rays spread from Henry's rose badge at its center, the names of Arthur's greatest knights mark each of their places, and Arthur himself sits enthroned at the top. It is nonsense, he thinks, the idea that Arthur was first among equals. Useful and dangerous at once, but still a fancy. He can hear Henry's voice: am I expected to place myself on a level with my subjects? Francis would never! And Cromwell begins to refute the point, to reshape it in his mind; a rehearsal for when he may next need to persuade Henry. He does this automatically, now: is always preparing the next argument.  

He slings an arm around Cromwell's shoulders, rocking, jostling. He does this often now; has since Wolf Hall. When Anne is present Henry is jumpy and irritable: what would, in a lesser man, be called hen-pecked. She gives Cromwell quick, sharp glances, but he cannot pin them to a definite fault in himself. Is it insecurity because Henry seems less than ardent in his adoration? Does she fear precariousness, miscarriage, childlessness? It is his business to know, and now he finds personal feeling insinuating itself between him and that necessity.   

Henry strides into the room Cromwell has commandeered as a study. He, Cromwell, spreads out a sheath of dispatches, letters, and reports to the king, and begins the morning's business.  

 

In the end it’s Johanne who makes him do it. I’ve done that, he thinks, remembering her face blending with Liz’s under him. What worse is this? It’s the laziest argument he’s ever made, and the truth is simple: at Winchester he can want what he wants. Even if what he wants is to be desired by Henry.  

 

When he finds Mary, she is alone. He makes it seem like an accident, but she knows he’s hunting for her and places herself in his way. He says, “What kind of lover is Henry?” 

And she answers, “As he is as a – lord.” She is right, Cromwell thinks. Henry is a friend only when he wants intimacy and the intimacy is always giving him something.  But he knew this already. He has watched Anne and watched Mary and knows Henry’s moods and caprices, his sudden shifts from indulgent to wrathful, his need to feel commanding but not burdened.  

“That’s not what I meant.” Mary laughs but does not blush. If she is shocked she refuses to show it. And there’s nothing that could cause awkwardness between them, no allusion to their own relationship. Or lack of. When he turned away from that possibility they became like an old couple, having been through everything together. It is comfortable because they never tried.  

“Selfish,” Mary says, “except when he wants to feel generous. But you know, the selfishness is accidental.”  

Cromwell raises his eyebrows. Mary laughs again. “Go,” she says. “Go to him but always warily.”  

“And then the king will want familiarity”, he says without bitterness. 

 

Absurdly, going to Henry is more difficult than he expects. It’s mostly Stephen Gardiner. The man is always under foot, swooping out from behind corners, intruding into the King’s chambers, making it unforgettable that he is in his see.  It is here, where he should be most dangerous, that he is most comic. But the effect is wearing thin and he seems to be making a habit of interrupting Cromwell when he is with Henry.  

 

And then Henry comes to him. As he might to a wife, he thinks for an instant, and firmly pushes that thought away. He has watched Anne for so long, guessed at her thoughts so intimately, that to think of her even in passing would be to invite her into their bed. He recoils at the idea and turns his attention to Henry’s wordless advance, letting himself be pressed down into the bed. Giving up on analysis.  

 

Carefully rolling away from the king’s snoring bulk, he sits up, then slowly transfers his weight to the floor. The bed hardly moves. He stands at two paces, looking down on the king.  

Someone might barge in, looking for him. Someone might barge in, alerting him that the king is not in his bed. And they will find Henry, naked but for the sheet, sprawled in Cromwell’s bed. There will be no plausible deniability. Nightmare sufferers do not sneak out. They wear their night shirts. There is a protocol for that; there is precedent. The older gentlemen of the king’s bedchamber remember how he called Cromwell that first night, the night he dreamed of Arthur and Anne’s ascent began. They know he would do the same again, and they would not take excuses for finding him here.  

Being buggered on one’s hands and knees hurts one’s lower back. The sweat has cooled on his chest,and the September night is cold through the open window. He stands in the nightshirt he stayed unromantically awake long enough to put on and feels his age. His knees creak: they don’t appreciate passionate contortions either. His sons are grown, a household of young men who can cut a deal and do the accounts and disentangle themselves from a threatening conversation. And here he is, taking stock of his aches and thinking of logistics very much unlike the man who was recently totally undone by the king’s size and weight and sheer, unthinking dominance.  

 

He feels like two different people. He doesn’t know which one Master Secretary is.  

And then he thinks of Gregory, worrying that Jane Seymour was meant for him. He thinks of Rafe, laughing at the prospect, and his faint disgust at his sons’ dirtymindedness. He can see them laughing at this, Rafe being the one sent in to alert him and finding the sleeping Henry. Rafe would double over in silent laughter, asking between gasps how on earth they will move Henry out of the room.  

Cranmer would just look put-upon. For a man of faith, his dearest wish seems to be that more people would act according to their God-given common sense. The king buggering Cromwell would be an affront to his sense of stability. Cromwell remembers him placating the king that night at Greenwich, trying to convince him that the dream was nothing instead of harnessing it. And then he would laugh, too, giddy with having put one over on Stephen Gardiner.  

They are united, all of them, in this ridiculous lightness. Anything is excusable at Winchester, in their new England. 

 

 


End file.
